Chasing Rabbits
by SoraOokami12
Summary: Sequel to The Countdown. The game has escalated. John is suspicious, and Sherlock is desperate. Sheriarty with some complicating Johnlock. There is a good bit of BDSM, so if that isn't your cup of tea, I wouldn't recommend this fic. If it is, then enjoy! UPDATE: Chapter Ten and Eleven have been published, making this story complete!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: _Welcome to the sequel of The Countdown! I would like to thank my dear friend Logan and his friend Channelle for helping me with this first chapter - was an excellent start. Alright, here ya go! Enjoy and please review! Authors love some feedback. _

Chapter One

Jacob Evers was about to make the biggest deal of his entire career. It was well deserved too. He has been working tirelessly for one the most well-known and well-respected investment firms in London. In three years, he has never been late a single day and only had one sick day on his record. He begrudgingly took that. He had contracted food poisoning from a Chinese restaurant near his flat. Needless to say, Mr. Evers made certain that that establishment was no longer open for business.

Tomorrow was the day he was going to make the deal. Millions of dollars were at stake, and he was confident a raise as well, possibly even a promotion. Jacob riffled through his closet, picking out his smartest three-piece suit. He hung it on the door and eyed it scrupulously. Yes, this was the one. After an hour or so of going over every detail of the contract, he made his way to his bedroom. He set the alarm on his mobile for 6:30 A.M. the following morning. The meeting was at 8:00 A.M., and by cab it only took him a half hour, so he would have an excess of time. Sleep soon took him.

A blaring noise entered his dream of sailing on his new yacht. It was not a common noise, something was different. His consciousness slowly began to arise. This isn't his alarm. What is it? Oh! Jacob shot upright in his bed as he scrambled for his phone. His business partner, Elliot, was phoning him.

"Yes, this is Evers," he said in a slightly annoyed, though worried tone. He couldn't think of a possible reason as to why he was calling him so early unless something had gone wrong.

"Where the hell are you?"

"I'm in bed. What is it, Elliot? Has our client backed down?"

"In bed! I wouldn't blame him if he did. It's 8:10, and we're waiting. Did you forget what time the meeting was? For God's sake, Jacob! Of all the days to sleep in."

Panic set in. His eyes darted to the clock just above his TV as he leapt out of bed to start getting dressed as fast as physically possible. 6:10 glared at him in red digits. Now confusion muddled his thoughts. "No, it's not, did the power go out?" he said into the mobile. Elliot was replying something, but Jacob didn't hear him. He brought the phone in front of him so he could see the time. 6:10. It wasn't making sense.

"I don't know what's going on, but I'm heading that way now," he spoke in a rushed tone before he hung up. In seconds he was in his suit. He snatched up his comb and ran for the door. He would try to make himself as presentable as he could in the taxi. He downed the stairs two at a time and jumped the last few. He broke out onto the busy street and desperately scanned for the black cabs with a welcoming yellow light on their roofs. None. He couldn't see a single one when there were usually at least two or three making their rounds. His hand jerked back his sleeve as he looked at his wrist watch. It conspired with the rest of his time-tellers as it told him that he had almost two hours to get to the meeting. Mr. Evers made an exasperated noise as he swiftly made his way back up to his apartment.

He had a bike. His sister had given it to him last Christmas. He didn't ride it much, but enough to know its exact place in his flat. Up the stairs. He made his way down the hallway to the storage closet. His breathing was now labored as he flung the door open. It hung in its usual position. In minutes he was back on the street. He jumped onto it, and then his feet pressed against the pedals. When there was no resistance to meet them, he nearly fell over. Confusion deepened as his already panicking mind tried to work out what happened. His near-crazed stare revealed that his bike was missing its chain. He had no recollection of ever removing it. Now an aggravated yell emanated from him as he tossed the bike into his building.

"This _cannot_ be happening," he growled as his fingers grasped at his hair. His head snapped up as his last resort became apparent. Soon enough he was running through the heart of London in one of his most expensive suits. He knew the quickest way. When he went through his health craze a few months back, he would run to work. The route was still ingrained in his mind. He no longer knew the time. It seemed to be such an enigma now, a trickster playing games with him. He just had to _get_ there. Now, he needed to be there now.

Sweat began to stain the posh fabric of his shirt. He tore at his tie to loosen it as he began heaving for air. He should have never quit that health craze. Right at that zebra crossing. Adrenaline was almost making him sick at the amounts in which it was flooding his system. His veins were pumping battery acid, and his heart felt like it was trying to escape the cage his ribs provided. His mind only knew one thing. Nothing else mattered. The people casting him angry stares as he raced by did not exist. Left up here. Cars and bikes were just obstacles. He could see his building now. A strange happiness overtook him then. He was going to get there. He wasn't going to miss this meeting. Not _this_ meeting.

He never heard the gunshot, never realized that he wasn't going to make it as his body hit the pavement.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

It had been weeks since Sherlock's time with Moriarty behind those luxurious closed doors. New cases had come and gone. His heart pounded each time he received a call from Lestrade, hoping for the next clue, but none ever came. Life was beginning to fall back into its monotonous routine. The good doctor went to surgery each day, went on his frivolous dates in the evening. Sherlock criticized each one that was introduced to him. Sherlock wasn't sure why John carried on with these women. John's attraction to his flatmate was more than evident; even if he didn't believe it was. As the days wore on, Sherlock toyed with the idea. He had never considered himself a sexual creature, but what Moriarty had done, _that_ was interesting. Not this. Moving throughout each day.

Even the cases had begun to take on a dull tune. They ranged from sibling rivalry to terrorism, but nothing took that edge off. His thoughts obsessed over Moriarty's game. How brilliant it was, how he was never bored when a new clue was handed to him like a precious jewel. Sherlock noted the signs of addiction. He craved it. Every waking moment, he longed for it. Not only the game, but the reward of solving the mystery. The second he walked into that room the world no longer annoyed him. All of his senses were alert; his mind was actively engaged every instant. Sherlock sighed. _Damn this addiction._

All that was left was John. Dear sweet, kind, caring John Watson. The doctor's crush made his cheeks flush whenever Sherlock stared at him for too long or if they brushed against one another. It was kind of cute, really. But Sherlock didn't want cute. He wanted those dark eyes to penetrate him. To have that constant feeling that his life was in danger every second he was in the presence of the man who was making him feel _so_ good. Not comfort, not love. He wanted to be taken, not to be gently cooed to.

Ah, John noticed his intense concentration on him. There go the cheeks. Sherlock was certain his own face did not hide the disappointment his internal dialog had brought on. He almost pitied the man for the feelings that seemed to plague him. Then he thought of his own circumstances and decided pity was not the appropriate word.

More days and nights passed. It was now a month since their rendezvous. Sherlock's self-control was now a long forgotten figment of some insignificant person's imagination. The wall in their sitting room now appeared to be more hole than wall. Mrs. Hudson had to call someone to replace it much to John's bank account's despair. Not only one, but two experiments had gone horribly wrong in the kitchen. One led to an appalling odor that nearly seemed permanently steeped in the construction of the entire room; the second ended with mercury splattered on every surface. John suddenly didn't feel concerned about his retirement plan anymore.

Sherlock had snuck out to take a smoke early one morning when the amount of nicotine patches he scattered on his body was beginning to make him feel ill. The smoke that filled his lungs calmed his frantic mind for the few minutes it lasted. When he realized that he needed another right when the first finished, he quit the idea of taking up cigarettes again. Another addiction was not what his mind needed.

With another possibility struck off his board of potential distractions, Sherlock walked disdainfully back into their flat. He knew he stunk of cigarette smoke, he knew that John would scold him, but his level of care had plummeted. He had been mean to the poor doctor in this last week or so, he knew this as well. Honestly felt bad about it at times. But he was going absolutely _mad_. Given the taste of paradise only to have it snatched from his mortal hands.

Without even bothering to cover the reek of the smoke, he fell onto the couch in his usual style. As his head hit the pillow, he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He didn't move to get it. It was Lestrade, he knew it. Lestrade with another case that held no merit for him anymore. Someone killed this someone because the first someone slept with this other someone so that someone needed to die so this someone could feel better about the whole ordeal. Now the thought of it made him nauseous. Why was the world so tedious?

John walked in from his bedroom at some point; the reprimanding began once the smell was identified as tobacco. Sherlock nodded, agreed, suddenly feeling like a husband being told by his wife that everything he thought and did was so obviously wrong. To help the situation move on, Sherlock broke out his phone, hoping to derail this conversation into whatever case Lestrade had texted him about.

_Tick tock. –JM_

Sherlock froze. John quickly quieted seeing Sherlock's sudden tense stance. "What is it?" he whispered as if the person who had sent the text could hear them. The cloud that had been stalking Sherlock for a month now broke. The world swiftly came into perfect clarity. This was it, this was his clue. Sherlock exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and felt his chronic despair evaporate with it.

After several moments, Sherlock finally graced John with an answer, all the while trying to mask his internal dubious delight. "The game continues," he breathed.

**A/N:** _And that is all for now! I should have the next chapter up next week. As always, please review!_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

John had been told that Sherlock met Moriarty that night he rushed out in that immaculate attire. Sherlock regaled that there were words exchanged, but the main point of the story was that the game wasn't over. It was here that John, once again, suggested that they tell someone about what was going on. Sherlock told him that no one had been harmed in their game. The deaths were all suicides, so neither the D.I. nor his brother had any business in such situations. The banter continued, but in the end Sherlock had his way. No one was going to be told anything, then.

An hour after Moriarty's cryptic text message, Lestrade called to inform that they had a case for the brilliant consulting detective. Not in those words, per se. Sherlock and John were at the scene in half an hour. They were in an alley in not one of the best places of London. The cheerful morning light gave the whole sight a bit of a hypocritical feeling.

Sherlock stalked up to the body like a giant cat about to make its next meal of some weak herbivore. His eyes looked at everything, mind analyzing it just as soon as the visual nerve impulses reached it. A man in his early thirties was lying prone in the alleyway, gunshot evident in the back of his skull, exiting through his left eye socket. Another sniper shot, Moriarty was repeating himself. Sherlock tsked and continued his examination. The victim was without a doubt wealthy. The suit he was wearing was something Sherlock could imagine Jim donning. Yet he reeked of body odor and was found here. He was running. From something? Sherlock puzzled over this for a moment before deciding to carry on.

He kneeled next to the body for a closer look. Unshaven, hair a mess with no product, tie undone and haphazard. The watch matched his attire in matter of expense. Something was off. "John, time," he ordered, eying the man's wrist. John huffed and glanced to his own watch. "It's nine thirty," he replied, looking over Sherlock's shoulder to see what it was he seemed so fixated on.

Sherlock then rummaged through the man's pockets to acquire his mobile. His eyes only glanced at the lighted screen. A triumphant laugh issued from the sleuth. "Oh, _that_. That's quite clever."

The rest of the team entered their usual stances of expectation. Anderson indignant, Donovan scowling, Lestrade looking hopeful and John intrigued. Sherlock stood upright, hands clasped behind his back as he turned to his audience. "He was late," his explanation began. After a long pause, Lestrade stirred, "So?"

"A wealthy man was running down this derelict alleyway. You have to wonder why," there was a general uncertain nod amongst the group.

"Someone was chasing him," Anderson offered.

"No, he was late. Didn't you hear me?" he repeated. Once he realized the glazed over looks did not vanish after that explanation, he sighed and continued, "There was something very important he needed to get to. Finding a cab and fighting London traffic or partaking in public transport would simply take too long, so he made a run for it. He knew the way, as did his killer. All he had to do was perch up there," he pointed to one of the boarded up buildings, "and wait."

"But, how did the murderer know he was going to be late?" asked John.

A smile broke across Sherlock's face, "Excellent question, Dr. Watson. This is where he got clever. If you take a look at his watch and mobile, you will notice that they are two hours behind. Killer made sure he was going to be late."

A general uneasiness took over them now. "Why go through so much effort? If he had the ability to get to the man's bloody watch, why couldn't he just kill him then?" It was Lestrade this time.

Now Sherlock faltered. John looked at him, eyebrow cocked wondering how he was going to get out of this one. He was also daring him not to tell the Detective Inspector. It was _murder_ now, the game had escalated. Sherlock met John's gaze for several seconds, truly struggling. He did not want the interference the Scotland Yard would undoubtedly provide. Damn the agreement he and Moriarty had made. Suicides did not bring this annoyance.

"The killer obviously wanted to be noticed for his intelligence and how easily he got to this man. I would not count on this being the only murder to come," Sherlock stated swiftly after breaking eye contact with John. He knew the disappointment and anger he would see there.

"Great, just what we need," sighed Lestrade, running a hand over his face. "Alright, clear out. Let 'em take the poor bastard off to the morgue."

The cab ride to Baker Street was marked by silence. John's rage radiated off of him as he pointedly glared out the window as if London were to blame for all of his woes. The moment the door closed behind them in their flat, all of his thoughts flooded out of him, each sentence punctuated by fury. "Are you kidding me, Sherlock? Please tell me that did not just happen. Moriarty _killed_ someone! This may still just be a game to you, but this isn't…this is not humane. You have to tell Lestrade. You know who is doing this; you can't play dumb because _I_ know. If you don't do it, I will," his usually adoring eyes were now lighted by a fire. When Sherlock did not reply immediately, he shouted, "A man is _dead_, Sherlock! Doesn't that mean anything to your sociopathic brain?"

_Tick tock._ Sherlock snatched the front of John's jacket and threw him roughly against a wall. The taller man pressed his body against the doctor's to firmly plant him there. His face was close to John's, who had quieted and whose breathing and heart rate had increased from both his outburst and Sherlock's proximity. "What are you doing?" he seethed, confused and still angry.

Sherlock stared into him then, barely calculating his next move. Seconds ticked by. "Please," he whispered, blue eyes searching John's. How should he play this? What will achieve the results he so desperately needs? He pressed his forehead into John's, mind racing. A play on emotions? No, that would make it worse. There was no way out. He was sinking in a quagmire, and the game had only just begun. And it was his only friend's fault. So what if the Scotland Yard knew it was Moriarty? Those minds versus Jim's? The corners of his mouth turned up.

"Okay, I'll tell them," he whispered, and he released John from his entrapment. The doctor fell onto weak knees. Once his balance was regained, he replied, "Right. But, Sherlock, what," he paused, waving a hand between the two of them, "was that about?"

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the conversation. "Nothing, needed to think. You help me do that."

John eyed him suspiciously, then adjusted his jacket. He focused on his breathing, determined to regulate it. He could feel his cheeks burning like they had been burnt by the light of the sun. He knew Sherlock had felt it. Having his lithe frame so firmly pressed up against him had its effects. John wondered if Sherlock was just verifying something he had hypothesized. Well, there would be no denying it now.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:**_ Thank you all so much for your reviews! As per request, I believe I am going to start updating twice weekly. So, hope the pleasure is all yours. ;] _

Chapter Four

It was brilliant. Sherlock felt alive again, finally. The sight of the body as they arrived on the scene; it truly felt like a present from Jim, wrapped in a blood-soaked bow. It was an easy deduction, regretfully. A bit of a let-down, but anything was better than his previous circumstances. Add to that that he knew that there were more to come. Boredom now seemed like a nightmare he had nights ago. He had this clue.

Sherlock was fairly certain he already gleaned everything he could from this one. A few hours after they left, he received a call from Lestrade telling him that it looked like he had indeed left the flat in a hurry. All of his other clocks were also two hours behind. The only extra piece of evidence that proved to be of slight interest was the fact that his bike chain was missing and did not appear to be in the flat itself. Killer needed him to be running down that alley, not taking bike routes. Logical.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrest of John's chair. Now he was back to waiting. There was too little information to try to figure out how this game was going to be played. He leaned his head back, stretched out his legs. He felt like he could sleep if his mind could stop running over the new scene and the previous game. He didn't really want it to, though. On an occasion or two after the first game, he would find himself doodling "470" when he was lost in thought, like a love-sick schoolgirl. He chuckled the first time he did it. He was then lost in the thoughts that were associated with that number. Fantasizing took up a large part of his time during the hiatus. He was fairly certain John had heard him on several nights when his orgasm took him and the moans were issued without conscious. This might have catalyzed John's current crushing behaviors.

Now with the feeling that Moriarty was close again, the fantasies were returning with fervor. Though now he knew it wouldn't be long till he no longer had to rely on his imagination. He would be able to feel those black eyes on him again, swallowing him whole. He would hear that voice ordering him to do something that would be solely for Jim's pleasure. On your knees, beg, touch, lick, suck. He could almost feel the pain Moriarty's hand conveyed when it was brought sharply against his skin. The burn of it, the high it would bring.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the erection that strained against the fabric of his trousers when he heard John enter the room. He opened his eyes, half-lidded, to look at his flatmate. John was frozen to the spot. His eyes lingered on Sherlock's groin before realizing the detective was watching him. He opened his mouth to say one thing, then a thought must have occurred to him because his stance changed, "What were you thinking about?"

Sherlock smirked. His flatmate was catching on quick. This probably was not a good thing. He considered saying "you", but something like that would require follow-up. Not that he minded, but sex with a person like John would have consequences. Though, the current predicament in his pants told him to damn the consequences. Sherlock did not move as he replied, "This is the second time you've caught me in the sitting room sporting a hard-on. What might we deduce from this?"

John fiddled with his pocket as he thought it over. His mind wanted to tell him one thing, but he knew that that was only hope, not fact. Slowly, a sickening feeling began to creep up. He also denied this option. There has to be another explanation. His answer was not desirable, but it was better than his current hypothesis. "It's like Donovan said, you get off on cases. The good ones, anyway."

Sherlock chuckled and sat upright, fantasies forgotten. "Indirectly, yes, I suppose that's a correct assumption. I'm alive when there's a preferable case. A dead man doesn't get off."

John nodded. That seemed fair. John cursed the whole situation. His attraction to his flatmate was already high enough. Now he's seen him turned on twice and then he's also felt that body pressed up against him. Hell, this is what hell feels like. The doctor shifted from one foot to the other before heading to the kitchen. "Right, tea?"

"Please," droned Sherlock as he lamented his lost fantasies.

When John returned with two steaming cups of tea, the awkwardness of the encounter before seemed to dissipate. He calmly asked, "Any news on our late man?"

"No, nothing more than what I've already told you. We're waiting now."

"For the next clue, the next murder," John said as he stared coldly at Sherlock. When he did not reply, John carried on. "You haven't told Lestrade, have you?"

"No, I haven't. But here!" he produced his mobile and waved it at John, "I'll do it now." He began texting _It's Moriarty_.

John shook his head wearily. It was like living with a hormonal teenager. A tall, sexy, brilliant hormonal teenager who was now pouting because he had to do something he didn't want to do. A moment after Sherlock sent the text, the phone began ringing. Blue eyes just glared at it like it ran over his puppy. "He'll show up at the flat later, might as well explain it then," Sherlock reasoned when he didn't answer it.

"Are you going to tell him about your last game with this psychopath, or start with this one?" John asked.

"This one. He won't understand why I didn't tell him about the one before," Sherlock answered, looking out of the window to avoid that scrutinizing stare.

"_I _don't understand why you didn't," John retorted, anger welling up again.

"It was between him and me, John. The police had no part."

"But they do now."

"I was given no other choice," he replied, looking back at John.

"Right." They spent the rest of the evening in silence until they heard Lestrade rapping on the door.

After Lestrade was sat with his own cup of tea, he looked markedly at Sherlock and asked, "So, Moriarty?"

Sherlock nodded, "He texted me just before you called me about the body."

"And you decided to just now share that information? What did he say?"

"Yes. John's doing. 'Tick tock,' was his message," Sherlock replied, making eye contact with neither of them. Lestrade gave John a sympathetic look, but pushed the matter no further.

"Okay. So, what do we do now?" asked Lestrade.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, perhaps too quickly, "You really expect to stop this man from what he plans to do? We've already dealt with this."

"We could tell your brother," suggested John cautiously.

Sherlock cast him a stare that conveyed the feeling of betrayal. "He won't have anything to do with this affair. It isn't a matter of national security."

"Could at least try, couldn't we?" Lestrade asked, looking between the two of them.

"I'd rather not. Dealing with my brother is exasperating," huffed the sleuth.

"So we're just going to sit here and wait for the next murder?" complained Lestrade.

"What do you suggest to do?"

"Your brother!"

Sherlock nearly yelled from the frustration. This game is not going nearly as well as he wanted it to go. It's caused more annoyance than anything. "Fine! You go groveling to him because I'm not about to."

John looked overly triumphant as he replied, "With pleasure." Sherlock shot him a snarky look before jumping up.

"Well, it looks like things have been handled. Shall you be on your way, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade took the hint and left a moment later after chatting with John for a bit. "Got your way," Sherlock grumbled as the door closed.

"For once," John replied, happiness still evident under the surface. Despite how much Sherlock detested this whole ordeal, Sherlock found himself enjoying that smile John was trying to hide. He couldn't help a mirthful smirk.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

John informed Sherlock the next day that his brother had his men out looking for one James Moriarty. Sherlock just grumbled in response. He wasn't too worried about it. His brother was powerful, but so was Moriarty. If Jim didn't want to be found, he wasn't going to be. The only problem that could arise is that this may damper the process of Sherlock receiving his clues. If all signs of Moriarty were being hunted, he would have to be even more precautious in his plans. Despite the apparent obstacles, Sherlock found his mobile buzzing with a new message. John was not around, so he smirked freely.

_Smile. –JM_

The detective decided then that he liked the messages of the last game more. This round, he was being given far less to work with. Perhaps that was the purpose; his mind had to reach farther to understand what was going on.

He and John were at the next scene in a few hours at Lestrade's call. They were at an older man's apartment in Chelsea. Lestrade looked downright depressed when the two made their way into the sitting room. He only gave them a nod of acknowledgment before he began, "62-year-old male found in his sitting room. Looked like he was playing with his cat, he had one of those dangly toys in his hand. You know the kind that they run around and chase? Well, yea. The killer must've snuck up behind him and, eh, did this."

John nodded and grasped the D.I.'s shoulder in comfort as Sherlock dove right in. Sherlock had read about this type of killing, but had never seen one. It was more gang-related. He wondered if this held any relevance. The man's mouth had been split by a blade from each corner of his lips up to his ears, a grotesque version of a smile. He bled out when he was unable to reach a phone to call for help. Even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to form any words anyway.

"A Chelsea Smile," Sherlock identified as he continued his inspection. He looked the man completely over, looked at his flat. Nothing else seemed remarkable. Was he missing something? What is he supposed to do with these two murders? He leaned against a wall, brooding as he entered a staring contest with the now orphaned tabby cat.

"Anything?" John asked, causing Sherlock to blink, therefore losing the contest. He was certain the cat was smirking smugly at his win as Sherlock turned his attention to the doctor.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I don't understand," Sherlock cursed.

"No indication that this will be the last murder?"

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "There has been very little data given to me. There has to be more."

"Right, of course." John sighed and returned to Lestrade.

The game was becoming more and more frustrating. Too little information. How was Sherlock supposed to find him with this? What if he didn't want to be found? What if he was just making him dance because now he knew Sherlock's desires? Now he was a plaything. This turned Sherlock's stomach. Only one way to find out, to continue playing the game.

Back in the flat with John, he had two murders on his mind with nothing to work with. He plummeted onto the couch as John went about brewing some tea. "Tick tock," he whispered to himself, "Smile." He groaned from the aggravation. He needed something, anything. His gaze found John working in the kitchen. The doctor's movements were straight from muscle memory, no thought going into anything he was doing. He had shed his jacket when they had returned. It was warm in the flat, so he was down to his undershirt. Sherlock could see the muscles contracting and relaxing with each of his actions. He made his decision. Consequences be damned.

Sherlock lithely rose from the couch and made his way to the kitchen. John hadn't realized his proximity until he nearly ran into him when he turned for the sugar. "Sherlock!" he shouted from surprise accompanied by an annoyed stare that quickly faded when he saw Sherlock's keen eyes. "Sherlock," he repeated, now warning.

"It isn't enough, John," he murmured, close enough for John to feel his breath on his cheek. His voice dropped lower as he nearly pleaded, "Just, let me do something. You'll enjoy it, I promise." Sherlock noted John's reaction to the situation. His body was slowly becoming aroused, but his mind was battling it.

"Sherlock, I am not here to be your distraction," he replied, though the change in his own voice betrayed him.

"But you'll like this distraction," Sherlock retorted.

_Consequences. He isn't Moriarty. Emotions will muddle things up. _

_But Moriarty isn't here. I need this. _

Sherlock moved closer, his lips just above John's neck. He could taste him with a very small movement, feel that rapid pulse beneath him. "Just one thing," he murmured. John moaned his assent, against all judgment. Then Sherlock's phone rang.

"Bloody hell," John said through a breath he had been holding. He slipped by Sherlock, concentrating on his steps like he was intoxicated. He snatched it up off the coffee table and tossed it to Sherlock. The detective caught it, curiosity etched on his face by John's actions. "Don't," John said, eyes locked with Sherlock.

_You never even touched him and this is how he's acting. Imagine if you had gotten your way. _

_If the game continues at this pace, I will get my way. _

John left, heading towards his bedroom, obviously flustered. Sherlock turned to his phone that was desperately begging for his attention. Unknown number. Jim. He looked back to make sure John's door was shut before he answered.

As soon as hit the answer key, Moriarty's voice came through the speaker, "What are you doing?" Accusing. The flat must be bugged.

"You clearly know what I'm not doing because of this call," Sherlock replied, slight venom in his words.

"John is not meant to be your toy to play with when you get bored. You are not to get all of your sexual frustrations out with him. You are not playing the game by its rules," Moriarty decanted.

"I wasn't aware there were rules."

"That's one of them. How _are_ things coming along?" His anger was waning. Sherlock was kind of fond of angry Jim.

"Fantastically mind-numbing. Hope you plan on making this more interesting soon, or I may end up playing with my toy just to help me bear."

There was a moment of silence before Moriarty answered. His voice was low, dangerous, promising, "And you will pay for that indiscretion."

"Really? You shouldn't make it sound so enticing," Sherlock replied cheerfully.

"Should you break that rule, I assure you, punishment will follow."

Sherlock stood stoically still in his flat, paused before he answered, "Alright."

"Good boy. Now, do me a favor and use your brilliant mind to complete this game so that I can have it all to myself. Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I was going to send you a text, but since I already have your attention, my next words are, 'Tea Time.'"

"You know I hate riddles," Sherlock grumbled.

Moriarty laughed. "See you soon, Sherly."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**_ A bit nervous about these next two chapters. Do let me know what you think!_

Chapter Six

Sherlock did not see John until late the next day. He emerged from his bedroom and went straight to the bathroom to wash. When he came out and made eye contact with Sherlock, he seemed annoyed. Tea was made and then the two sat in silence, expecting the other to say something. John finally broke down.

"You can't just play with me, Sherlock. Sex with your flatmate isn't just something to do when you're bored," John muttered, almost embarrassed of the words he was saying. There was hope there too. Sherlock almost felt guilty about that.

"I understand. It won't happen again."

John just nodded, gaze averted. The hope has been crushed. He's hurt his flatmate. Now he feels grateful to Moriarty for his intrusiveness. He now understands Moriarty is the only one he could ever play with. This, what John is doing, he doesn't want.

Sherlock broke the tension by bringing up the next clue, "He texted me. 'Tea Time.'"

John seemed to pay little attention to what he had said. Sherlock was now fearing he had done permanent damage to their relationship. _But I didn't even touch him._ John was being ridiculous. Nothing was done. Why was he acting so emotional over something that didn't even happen? _Ah, that's it. Because it didn't happen._ Surely this will be over soon. Sherlock just needed to ride it out.

John had heard Sherlock talking to someone on the phone when he left that dreadful situation. He didn't hear anything telling, but he did notice the tone. John couldn't think of a single person he talked to like that. His earlier hypothesis was now returning to the surface. His mind wouldn't let him think about it. It couldn't be true; he couldn't be thinking these things about Sherlock. He might be strange, but he had more sense than to have those kinds of dealings with a known psychopathic killer. The cab driver came to mind then. Sherlock holding that pill. _No_.

It wasn't long until they were at yet another murder scene due to the illustrious James Moriarty. Sherlock was examining the scene before John had even entered the room. The victim was a man in his late forties. He was sitting upright at a table that had a tea set displayed upon it. His hands had been positioned to appear that he was about to take a sip from his cup at any given moment. There were no signs of violence. There was something off about the corpse. His lips were too red or maybe it was the crazed look in his eyes.

"Poisoned," Sherlock announced, "I will require a blood test as soon as possible. Also," he opened the tea pot and gazed at its contents warily, "An analysis of the tea will need to be done."

Five minutes after they had arrived at the scene, they were leaving. The two were solemn on the taxi ride back. Sherlock glanced over to John. His muscles were tense, eyes were too focused on the outside world. He was so deep in his thoughts. Sherlock admired this side of John. Mentally absorbed. When John noticed his stare, his cheeks did not flush.

"What do you think it's about?"

"Hm?" replied Sherlock, eyes never leaving that concerned face.

"Why is Moriarty doing this? Just a game you two play? He creates the game and you merrily try to figure it out? When does it stop?" He sounded weary now. His time with Sherlock was taking its toll.

The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched. "When I solve it."

Though it wasn't exactly descriptive, John just nodded and sighed, "I need a drink."

Sherlock told the cabbie the name of a bar a few blocks from their flat. John just looked deflated as he brought back two pints from the bar. Sherlock rarely ever drank, but if his flatmate needed the company, he felt like he owed it to him. They sat in silence for a few moments as they each took sips from their respective mugs. Well, Sherlock sipped, John more gulped.

When the detective could no long stand the lull, he murmured, "John?" his blue gaze frozen on the man across him.

The ex-soldier seemed to slowly retract from his thoughts at the sound of his name. He glanced over to the beckoner. The sleuth's stare was so penetrating. Those gorgeous eyes only observed him. He felt that familiar shiver down his spine, causing him to leave the booth to return to the bar.

Sherlock's concern only deepened when he returned with two glasses of hard liquor. The doctor placed one in front of Sherlock, pointed at it and raised his eyebrows to make his point clear, "Drink." The taller man kept the eye contact for a moment before he nodded. John took his seat and raised his own glass, "Cheers," he growled. Holmes chinked his glass against John's and copied his movements in downing the amber liquid. The burn made Sherlock's eyes sting. He had always detested alcohol. It made you slow, unbalanced, and lowered soundly placed inhibitions. He never understood the populism's obsession with the chemical, but he did, however, comprehend the social implication of the drink. Right now, his friend needed the dulling effect of the drink, needed to drown out his emotions.

After another round of shots, Sherlock began to feel the effects he so despised. By the time the third small glass left his lips, he knew he was considered drunk. Not blundering so, but definitely at a loss of all of his mental faculties. He attempted to deduce which man a particular blonde was going to go for, and he got it terribly wrong. Yes, this was drunkenness.

He knew his flatmate was feeling it as well. When he had finished his own pint from earlier and noticed Sherlock had stopped drinking his, he decided to finish it for him. The doctor was staring out at the vibrating crowd. He hadn't looked at Sherlock since his earlier demand. Sherlock knew he knew. Or if he didn't, he was trying to drown out his suspicions. Sherlock tried to imagine what John was thinking. The man he lived with and had an unbearable crush on might be playing a murderous game with a psychopath who once tried to blow him to Timbuktu, and to top it off, at the end of the twisted game, they get to fuck each other's brains out. Sherlock understood why John was brooding now, but it wasn't going to change anything. John was barely involved, and Sherlock needed this. He needed to feel alive. Why couldn't John just get that through his skull?

Sherlock glanced down to his phone, frowned at how blurry the screen seemed to be. Briefly he thought about drunk texting Jim, which just sent him into a fit of giggles that got him a glare from John. "What?" he asked, looking down at Sherlock's mobile.

The sleuth just waved his hand in front of him, "Nothing," he replied with a stony face and a sever seriousness to his voice. This made John smirk a little. _Good_.

John placed yet another drink before Sherlock, which made him grumble. Surely the amount he has already drunk should suffice the social standards. John looked extremely solemn as he told Sherlock, "Drink that, and I'll dance with you."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh really? So if I offered to just go dance right now, you would deny it?"

"That's right." John smirked at his obvious lie, and that had Sherlock chuckling.

"Alright," Sherlock said, never breaking eye contact with his flatmate as he raised his new glass of ethanol.

"To friends," John said, gently tapping his glass against Sherlock's.

"To friends," agreed Sherlock just before he let the alcohol slide down his throat.

In seconds, John had a hold of his hand and was pulling him towards the dance floor. Now Sherlock wasn't so sure about his deal. Why had he agreed to this again? The music was louder out on the floor, people were gyrating around him, bumping into him. The smell of sweat and alcohol filled his senses. He was nearly about to tell John that he was about to back out when the man turned on him, obviously choosing his spot. The man stumbled a bit at the sudden turn, but soon had his bearings. Sherlock could not decipher the look in his eyes. Anger was there, determination, but so was enjoyment. The large diameter of his pupils could very easily be attributed to the effects of the alcohol, or something else. Both possibilities were probable.

Soon John began moving to the music. He had evidently done this before. Sherlock hadn't paid much attention to the dancers in their time of drinking, but he was fairly certain John was considered _good_ at it. All he wanted to do was watch those hips move, observe the movement of his ab and chest muscles beneath his almost too-tight shirt. The good doctor wasn't having it though. He grabbed onto Sherlock's hands and placed them on his rocking hips. Oh, this was much preferable.

John looked at him then, alcohol giving him a certain fire behind those eyes. His inhibitions were lowered. Perhaps he wasn't the good doctor Sherlock had perceived him to be. He went to tip toe so he could talk to Sherlock over the crowd. The sleuth felt a shiver pass over him as he felt the warm breath against his ear, and at the word that was said. "Dance." It was a command, not a request, and Sherlock obeyed.

He was awkward at first, not being able to find the beat, but John helped him. He had grabbed Sherlock's own protruding hip bones and forcefully moved them. Before long the taller man got a hold of it. He was nowhere near as talented as John was, but he was fairly certain he wasn't doing too horribly. Sherlock slowly began to feel the appeal of it all. The drinking lowered his stone-hard inhibitions of actually _dancing_ in a public place. He felt the energy of the place. The rawness of what everyone in the room was desperately wanting. John knew what he wanted.

The last shot made its appearance in Sherlock's nervous system. He was now wondering why the hell he hadn't done this with John before. And why was he so far away? Sherlock's hands on his flatmate's hips curled around to the small of the man's back, and he tugged him closer. John smiled a knowing smile. Sherlock pressed closer as the two of them moved to the upbeat electronic music. Their bodies worked together, never losing the tempo. Sherlock could feel the heat from the shorter man's body, and he knew it was doing terrible things to him. The movement, the alcohol, the music, all of it was centered around one thing. As the song began to reach its climax, Sherlock let John know he had succeeded. He grabbed the man's shoulders, stopping his ecstatic dancing in a second. John's firey eyes met those cold blue ones. Sherlock was certain he saw a smile as he bent down and kissed him. Kissed they did, with all the people dancing around them. John knitted his hands into Sherlock's hair as he kissed back with fervor. Bodies pressed up against one another, they began moving again. Hands roamed beneath shirts, feeling the muscles just _move_. Sherlock began to feel lightheaded with the sensation. He could feel John's arousal through his trousers, and he knew John could feel his. Now the only thing racing through the brilliant man's mind was having him.

_Consequences, _came the barely heard whisper in the far reaches of his conscious.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The two drunkards merrily made their way down the streets of London to their homely abode. They attempted and failed again and again to remember the lyrics of the last song they were listening to before they ducked out of the bar. It hadn't mattered, of course, for they laughed at their failure. They walked with arms woven around each other's waists, stumbling every other step. In only a few minutes, they stood before their flat's door. Sherlock made to licking and nibbling John's ear as he tried to get his key into the lock. Giggles filled the air as he whispered, "Stop," without any conviction.

"I don't think you really want me to," Sherlock murmured as his hands drifted down the doctor's torso. With a triumphant "Ha!" John slid the key into the lock and twisted it. They practically fell into the stairway when the support of the door swung out from them. This only led to more giggles and unconvincing shushes.

With some effort, they made it to the living room. Their merry quickly faded into something with more seriousness to it. Sherlock pressed John up against the same wall he had before. Only this time, the promised kiss was given. It was slow, languid. When it broke, their eyes met. What they were doing fleetingly flashed across their minds. When they kissed again, it was evident they had both come to the same conclusion as the kiss deepened. It was faster, more demanding. More than once their teeth clashed which led to Sherlock biting down on John's bottom lip. He cherished the look of surprise on his face. He released him, and looked to see if this was acceptable. Wariness was present on John's face, but he showed acceptance as he sucked on his slightly bleeding lip. A devious smile crept across Sherlock's sharp face.

Sherlock led them to his bedroom. He backed John up to the bed, and he fell backwards when the back of his knees hit it. Sherlock remained towering above him. Both of their breathing was quick, heavy; it was the only sound filling the room. Sherlock began to undress himself, and John followed suit. When they were both down to their shorts, Sherlock slowly moved on top of John, not touching him. The detective grabbed John's wrists, pinning them above his head. He hovered above him, like a snake poised to strike its prey. John's pulse was quickening, the anticipation getting the best of him.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock growled into the man's ear. Memories of Moriarty asking him the same question flashed across his mind. This only heightened Sherlock's arousal.

Predictably, John replied, "You." Despite this, Sherlock smiled in response.

The detective brought his fingertips to John's throat. He barely pressed them down, he could feel that hectic pulse, the air being dragged through his trachea. With pressure, John would panic. Sherlock thought about Moriarty doing that to him, that ever-present threat of death. He moaned at the idea, but did not put John through the experience. Instead, he slowly slid his fingertips down John's chest. Ghosting them over his abdomen that made the muscles jump and twitch. Slowly, so slowly they made it to the barrier of cloth. Sherlock looked to John deviously. He squirmed beneath him, his desperation for touch making itself palpable.

Sherlock took him into another kiss then. It was like the one before, harsh, wanting, begging. John gasped for breath as Sherlock broke it to bite down onto his neck. He then licked and kissed the mark. This drew a moan from his flatmate that had stirred Sherlock even more. He went to kissing, licking, nibbling across the ex-soldier's chest. He had to be slow with John. John was not Jim, he repeated this mantra to himself.

Once again he made his way to the pants that John was wearing. This time he removed them, along with his own so John would not feel at a disadvantage. John's cock was hard and red. Pre-cum glistened at the head, and the sight of it alone made Sherlock immediately take it into his mouth. John gasped and moaned at the sudden progression. Sherlock was good, John noted, he's done this before. That dread made itself known in the pit of his stomach, but it was quickly dismissed when Sherlock flicked his tongue over the slit.

The sleuth reveled in the wanton noises that were emanating from the good doctor. At this rate, it didn't seem he wasn't going to last much longer. He withdrew John's cock from his mouth with a satisfying pop. Sherlock nearly stopped as his mind quickly told him that he had not been told to cease what he was doing. _He's not Jim._

When he leaned back onto his haunches, he couldn't help but gleam at the sight before him. John looked thoroughly debauched. Hair tussled, lips red and swollen, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, bite marks and bruises making themselves known across his body, cock hard and wet from Sherlock's mouth. _"Punishment will follow."_ Sherlock ignored the dark warning.

He leaned over to his nightstand and withdrew a tube of lubricant. As he lathered up his fingers, he looked down to his bedmate. "Have you done this before?" he asked, unsure of how John had imagined this evening going.

To his surprise, John nodded, his eyes locked onto Sherlock's lubed fingers. "You get lonely overseas," he mentioned without need of further explanation. Sherlock nodded and leaned forward. He took John into a kiss as his fingers moved to his opening. The doctor tensed at first, but gave into it after a few seconds. Sherlock began working his fingers in and out and leaned back to watch John. The sleuth then hit that spot that took John by surprise. The moan he let out was truly unadulterated, and Sherlock only wanted to hear more of it. "Again," John whispered, making eye contact with Sherlock.

The taller man smirked and did as the man wished. John's pink lips opened wide as he groaned from the pleasure of it. "God, yes," he murmured. When Sherlock removed his fingers, the doctor whined. The detective was certain John hadn't meant for that noise to be heard. Sherlock aligned himself with Watson, looking to his face as he asked, "Are you ready?"

John just nodded desperately, and his eyes went to Sherlock's cock. As soon as Sherlock pressed forward into him, both men moaned at the sensation. Yes, this was definitely what Sherlock wanted. It had been slow, nearly tedious. But it was worth this. He sunk deeper into his flatmate. A moment pause, then the moving began. Before long, the room filled with sound of their actions. Flesh hitting flesh, moans and hisses of breath, whispers of "Oh God" and "Yes". Sherlock's heart rate was tachycardic, breathing was too fast, too shallow. The feeling of ecstasy was filling his veins. The doctor's nails dug into Sherlock's back as he took John into his hand. Looking at him, he knew he was close. John moaned loudly and clenched around Sherlock as he came. The sight of his flatmate's come spilling over his hand had Sherlock crashing with him. The electricity surged through his body when he tumbled over. His cry was silent to his own ears as his dopamine levels spiked. Nothing else existed, nothing but this intense pleasure. He collapsed soon after, riding the waves. As soon as it was gone, he missed it.

He felt like he should say something. Isn't that what people normally do after sex? Talk? But weariness was taking him. He rolled to one side, out of John. He looked the man over who still had his eyes closed, his breathing slowly stabilizing. Maybe he had already fallen asleep? If he was or wasn't, it didn't matter because sleep had taken Sherlock then. The next moment he was waking up to the light of the morning glaring through the blinds. Sherlock rolled over, expecting to see a sleeping John only to discover that he was alone in his bed.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Sherlock wandered drowsily into the sitting room to find John standing at the window. His eyes were staring gravely out of the window, not seeing anything. Sherlock's stomach dropped. He thought there might be some regret haunting the doctor, but not this. "John?" he asked tentatively.

The man seemed stuck in his haze as he looked back to his flatmate. "Sherlock," his voice caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, and Sherlock watched his friend steel himself. When he made eye contact with the sleuth again, something changed. The fear was gone, now he seemed one hundred percent his soldier self. "I received a phone call this morning," he began to explain. Sherlock nodded, a thousand options flying through his mind. Moriarty was number one.

"Even though I got out of the service, I am still considered on reserve," his left hand began to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. Sherlock was certain he wasn't aware of it. "My old commander, he phoned. Told me I had been called up. Doctors are short, you know, in the service. Told me there was a clinic in Iraq that I am to report to. For, uh, it's only three months. So that's, that's good."

Sherlock watched his flatmate's face change with the struggling emotions. This was it. This was the punishment. He was going to have his toy taken away. "When do you leave?" Sherlock asked, his voice more gruff than he wanted it to be. John didn't reply for a moment. His mouth opened, but the words did not want to come. Sherlock tried to help, "That soon?"

Watson nodded, no longer able to keep eye contact with the man he had just slept with the night before. "Yea, it's, uh…two days."

Anger welled up inside Sherlock then. "Two days? They can do that?"

"It's definitely not normal. The minimum is usually two weeks, but the commander, he said it was dire." John had now twisted the bottom of his shirt into a ball.

"And I suppose you can't just say no?"

John wearily shook his head. "I won't be in any danger though," he replied, trying to add some silver lining, "It's on an established base and most of the hostility in Iraq has died down. The money will be good."

Sherlock only humphed in response. He walked over to the kitchen, "Tea?"

John laughed. "And you're going to make it? How do I know you won't end up burning this place to the ground?"

Sherlock looked at him, smirking, "You don't."

The next two days were dreadful. John seemed thoroughly depressed the entire time. They never spoke of their night together. John only busied himself with preparations for his departure. Sherlock meagerly watched as he attempted to think over the murders. They were informed by Lestrade that the last victim had been poisoned with mercury. Sherlock knew that particular element of choice had a meaning, but with this, his mind could not focus. It felt like mere minutes had passed before they were standing in the airport. Major John Watson stood in his British Army uniform, duffle bag slung over his unharmed shoulder.

When they called his flight number, both men winced slightly. The moment had come. Both were steeled against this, but the look that transgressed between them was filled with more than they knew. "You will be safe," Sherlock said, not asked.

John nodded. "Yes. Only three months," he told himself more than the man before him. His number was called again, but his feet didn't move. He needed help, just this once more. Sherlock grabbed the back of the soldier's head and took him into a kiss. It was rough, not passionate. John hummed against it before he backed away. There was no lingering eye contact, just a curt nod from the shorter man which was followed by him taking his leave. Sherlock watched his flatmate and only friend walk towards the plane that would take him into a war zone.

As soon as the plane left the ground, Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. Instead of the elation he usually felt, numbness took its place. His lithe fingers brought the phone before him.

_Off with their Heads. Last clue, Sherly. Make it worth it. –JM_

Sherlock arrived at the scene alone. The rest of the crew had already been told about John's departure. They all sent him pitying glances, which he ignored. His mind immediately wrapped around the victim. Everything else faded as the cogs in his brain began working full speed. It was a woman this time. A nurse, quite telling by her scrubs, in her early thirties, her head lay about a foot from her body. It had not been posed, left where it had fallen. There was more to this crime, not just the body. There was an oil lamp in her hand, obviously placed after death. It looked old, very old. Sherlock guessed around 18th or 19th century, but he would have to have someone verify that.

He stood up from his position to find everyone staring at him. His eyes looked for his mate out of habit. Sherlock's mouth hung open for a moment, suddenly at a loss at what to tell these people. The cause of death was obvious. He didn't have an inkling on the oil lamp, even though he had the lingering feeling that he should. Sherlock's hand waved in the air, as if searching for something he could tell them. After the hesitation, he finally told them, "I need to think," and with that he walked out.

And he walked. Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock made his way through London. He was always aware of where he was even without concentrating on his surroundings. His consciousness sunk deep into his mind palace. His body moved on its own accord. Every detail about the murders swam before him. He would catch himself wanting to voice his thoughts to John, to see what quip he would say. Now he found that he also missed his skull.

Even without audience, he felt the connection rising. He knew it was just in front of him, if he would just open his eyes to it. A man was shot because he had been late – Tick Tock. The next had his face split to a gruesome grin – Smile. Another had been poisoned by mercury sitting at a tea table – Tea Time. Now a woman, a nurse, had been beheaded holding an oil lamp – Off with their Heads.

The revelation slowly crept up on him. He chuckled to himself as he recognized the renowned tale. One character was late, the next smiling wickedly, another driven mad by mercury and the last lost her head. "Alice," he whispered to the wind. It was clever, Sherlock admitted, having a theme to it all. But what did it mean? What was he supposed to do with an age-old tale of a girl wandering into a mystical land? Something didn't fit. What was it? He ticked through the victims and fell to the last. The nurse with the lamp. As far as he could remember, there seemed to be no correlation between the lamp and the story. So it had another significance.

Sherlock found himself at the coffee shop Moriarty had once directed him to. He smiled despite himself and entered its warm corridors. The tall man sat in his spot and actually sipped at the tea he ordered. There is something he knows, just on the periphery of his mind. _A nurse with an oil lamp._ With nothing clicking, his mind began to wander. He thought of his night with John, his night with Moriarty, the game. He thought of John in his clinic. There were nurses there. Maybe one would catch his eye one night when they made their rounds. _"You get lonely overseas." _Nurses making their nightly rounds. Oh.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **_Really short chapter! Sorry! I'll be posting the next soon enough. Please comment!_

Chapter Nine

Florence Nightingale was a nurse in the 19th century, and most famous from her time during the Crimean War. She would make her rounds in the evening, carrying an oil lamp. Her mere presence was said to bring warmth to hearts of the wounded. Sherlock was certain she was the one being referenced and because it was the last clue, he had a feeling it would lead him to the place of their proposed meeting. She went to school at St. Thomas' Hospital, which had been incorporated into King's College. The detective mulled this over. There was another, more blatant, possibility. It fit precisely into Moriarty's theme for this game. There was a mental health institution by the name "Capio Nightingale" and this was where Sherlock was headed.

Standing outside of its doors, he realized a more complicating matter. Where would he go once he was inside? The solving of the game had his pulse rate up. His excitement was dulled by the loss of John, but the prospects behind those doors seemed to overpower that setback. John was gone, but he would be back. This was the now. This game needed to have its ending. Sherlock wouldn't, _couldn't_, just let this go. Not when he had come this far. John had been a distraction, but this was reality. This was the mission, and his body was already feeling the effects of being so close. As soon as he trudged through those thoughts, he knew exactly where he needed to go.

Sherlock strolled through the doors without an ounce of nervousness. When he bumped into the front counter, he offered the nurse behind it a glorious smile. She couldn't help but smile back. Who would be able to deny it when looking at that face? "Hello," he said, his voice maybe a little lower than its usual.

Her smile remained as she replied simply, "Hello."

"I'm here to see my niece," he explained, those eyes absorbing her.

"Ah," she replied, her eyes lingering a second too long at those lips, "What's her name?"

"Alice," a pause, "Liddell."

The name seemed vaguely familiar to the nurse, but she couldn't quite place it. Maybe the patient had been here a long time. Would be a shame. Such a fine man having to worry over a family member. She typed the name into the database, and sure enough, there she was. She looked back to the stranger to find his gorgeous blue eyes were still on her. She could feel a slight blush creep across her cheeks as she replied, "Room 470. I'll have one of the orderlies show you the way."

"Thank you, Cassie," he replied, and there was that smile again.

She was certain she was half a shade to tomato red by the time the orderly came. She just nodded him a goodbye and buried her nose in her book to hide her embarrassment.

Sherlock smirked to himself as he was led to an elevator. He wasn't surprised Moriarty had repeated himself. He would have had to figure out the name to get to the room anyway. No card key this time. Only knowledge would get him in. The guard didn't get off the elevator. He just pointed to the left and wished the visitor a good day. Once again the sleuth was making his way down a hallway to meet with the illustrious criminal mastermind. He was not nearly as nervous as he was the time previous. He had some expectations. Well, he did. His plan this time around may throw things into chaos. But right now, Sherlock wanted chaos.

He rapped on the door that supposedly contained a Ms. Alice Liddell. The door swung open easily, he had doubted James would have the door locked by the institution. The dark haired man stood before him, a smile playing on his lips. "Sherlock," he stated, eyes consuming the man in a way that had shivers running down his spine.

"Jim," the detective replied moments before he slammed his fist into the side of the criminal's face.


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: **_Alright, here comes that BDSM warning! Please enjoy. ;]

Chapter Ten

Moriarty stumbled back into the cell. "Oh ho ho!" he laughed, bringing his hand to feel the blood that had started to flow from the split skin of his cheek. His eyes widened with surprise and excitement at the sight of red on his fingertips. "Oh, Sherly," his eyes darkened as he looked to his assaulter, "You really shouldn't have." His tongue slowly tasted the blood, he hummed in approval.

Watching the crazed man suck the blood from his fingers had Sherlock's body respond in a way he wasn't prepared to feel yet. He wanted to cause the man pain for what he had done. But now that wasn't his only yearning. The detective stalked into the room, closing the door behind him. He noted the automatic lock he heard slide into place. Moriarty watched him with anticipation. In a second, Sherlock had him to the ground. He pinned his body down by straddling him and had his forearm pressed dangerously far down on the man's throat. He knew there would be a purpling bruise there to accompany his cut cheek in the morning.

The look on Jim's face, there was not a trace of fear on it, only curiosity and that desire. Sherlock didn't know what to say now that he had him pinned. He felt so much anger from this man taking away his friend. But then, he had broken the rules. He had just opened his mouth to say something when Moriarty retaliated. Suddenly he was slammed up against a desk. He cried out at the pain of having the edge hit his back. This drew a moan from the criminal.

"Did you want to say something, Sherly? Was this you acting out your revenge from me stealing your toy away? Hmmm?" Moriarty was asking all of this into his ear as his arms strongly held him where he was. Sherlock could feel the finger tips digging into his muscle.

A strange smile crept across Jim's face as Sherlock glared at him, confirming what he had just said. "Ah, yes, dear Johnny boy. Tell me," his warm breath against his neck had Sherlock biting back moans. "How was he?"

_He wasn't you, _Sherlock immediately thought, but his body told him that there was a better way to do this. With a clever grin, Sherlock replied, "Fabulous." This derived a haughty laugh from Moriarty and awarded Sherlock his own blow to the side of his face. He gasped at the suddenness of it as pain shot across his eyes. Suddenly he felt dizzy. A dark chuckle emanated from him without his own knowledge of it. "Jealous, I take it?"

They were back to the floor, with Moriarty on top this time. He was painfully pinning the taller man down. The deviant drug his tongue along Sherlock's long column of a neck until he reached his ear, "I guess I'm just going to have to reiterate how you are _mine_, Sherlock." The sleuth could only groan in response.

Moriarty ordered him to remove his clothes which Sherlock did with precision. Jim himself only removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt, marking Sherlock's vulnerability. The detective caught a glimpse of bruises forming on his torso. This only served to fuel his desire. He made to move toward the shorter man, but froze in his spot when he recognized that look in the criminal's eyes. He had not been told that he could do anything yet. That Cheshire smile made its appearance as Jim commended him, "Atta boy."

The mastermind made his way to Sherlock, painfully slowly. He stood just a mere inch away as he growled, "Get on the bed. On your back." Soon enough Sherlock was exactly as he had instructed. He had tried to rationalize his desire for this kind of vulnerability after his first tryst with the madman. He never came up with anything.

Jim then attached the restraint straps that were hooked to the bed to Sherlock's wrists and ankles. His eyes scanned over his prey, pleased with the circumstances. He then walked over to the desk Sherlock had just been previously slammed up against. He opened a drawer and acquired the item he fancied. The detective saw the gleam of the metal as it caught the light, and it made his stomach drop. When Moriarty turned to look at the sleuth, his smile suddenly seemed sickening.

"Do not fret, my dear," he cooed as he made his way toward the trapped man, "No permanent damage will be done."

Sherlock pulled against the restraints futilely; he wasn't so convinced. His heart was racing painfully as the adrenaline flooded his veins. Moriarty was now straddling him, weapon in hand. "I promise," he whispered into his ear, "You'll enjoy this."

Despite the fear and doubt, the position the man was in still had desire pulsing through Sherlock's body. The criminal's mouth began to kiss and bite at Sherlock's nape. His empty hand was slowly trailing down his torso that had Sherlock arching his back against all better judgment. This seemed slow, the love-making feeling had the detective slightly uneasy. Moriarty had moved his trail of kisses down his body, over his chest and abdomen. Now he leisurely took Sherlock into his mouth that issued a moan from the restrained man. His head tilted back as he forgot the dangers of the situation, forgot who the man was and what he had in his possession. All that mattered was that mouth and what it did to him.

Sherlock gasped as Moriarty's tongue swept over him. It was so hot, so perfect. His legs tensed against the restraints out of habit. Being unable to move seemed to make it so much more intense. Jim hummed around him and that had the sleuth making his own unadulterated sounds. His hips bucked helplessly against that mouth, wanting more but his bondage kept him from what we needed so desperately.

With the headiness of it all, Sherlock started to feel that pooling in his lower belly. His thrusts into those lips had become needier, and this is when the mastermind stopped and looked up to the panting man. Sherlock returned that gaze, and he hated the desperation he knew the criminal could see in his face. "Now," Jim said, his voice obviously a lower octave. He moved up so that he was level with Sherlock again. "I am going to mark you." There was no question in his statement. Sherlock tested the restraints again, but with less enthusiasm than before. He knew he must be insane to be considering this, to perhaps want it.

Moriarty brought the blade between them. The sharp edge was facing Sherlock's upper torso, vertically dividing it. Adrenaline spiked again, and Sherlock found that he had craved this high. His breathing picked up as the anticipation clawed at him. Jim watched all of these reactions, and it made his arousal all the more severe. He leaned his hips into Sherlock's leg so he could feel the heat of it. The sleuth moaned and moved into it which had Jim smirking.

They locked eyes just before the criminal sunk the blade just slightly into Sherlock's skin. Those blue eyes immediately closed and his breath held. As Jim slowly drug the blade down, causing the first drops of crimson to form, the detective moaned. It was painful, but it mixed with the heady feelings of arousal. Sherlock's mind seemed to confuse the two sensations, and it brought its own high. The blade made its mark across Sherlock's chest, and he could feel the droplets of blood start to drip down his sides as he began to breathe again. Now Jim continued down his abdomen. Sherlock's vision was becoming hazy with pinpoints of light. He didn't want it to ever stop. This crazed man was marking him, _claiming_ him, and Sherlock loved it. But it did end, just at his lower abdomen, and the high began to gradually wane. Sherlock opened his eyes to see the mad man gazing at him like he had never seen anything so delectable.

The next motion had Sherlock making the most wanton noises. Jim had lowered himself and slid his tongue along the bleeding cut. Sherlock arched up into it. When he reached the beginning nick of the wound, he brought his red-tinged lips to Sherlock's pale ones. They kissed as if it was their only source of air. The taste of his blood, knowing what Jim had done to him, it was all too much. He had never wanted something this desperately. He broke the kiss, stared determinedly into those black eyes and begged, "Please."

The criminal smiled darkly as he stood beside the bed to remove the remainder of his clothes. As soon as he had undone Sherlock's cuffs, they were intertwined. Sherlock moaned and almost whimpered as Moriarty's chest pressed up against his, against his bleeding wound. Jim produced a bottle of lube and immediately began stretching him. Soon enough, his fingers were replaced by his cock. It never started slow. The tempo was quick and rough. As Moriarty slid his finger down the cut, he growled into the sleuth's ear, "You are mine, Sherlock." Jim then took the taller man into his hand, and Sherlock knew it wasn't going to be long. Moriarty thrust into Sherlock at a pace that suited him. The sleuth watched the man above him as he took him. His own eyes were closed, mouth parted and cheeks flushed at the feeling of being buried inside Sherlock. A devious smile quirked at the detective's lips then. Sherlock had Moriarty completely undone. Both of their minds were fully concentrated on this one act.

The familiar build began. Sherlock was bucking his hips up to meet Moriarty at each of his thrusts. Their moans were becoming louder, cruder. The searing burn across Sherlock's chest had him feeling dizzy in all of the sensations. He dug his fingers into the murderer's back, dragging him closer, forcing him to move harshly against the wound. Jim moaned at the notion, and bit into the detective's neck then. Sherlock cried out as he propelled into his orgasm. His whole body tensed as his mind fell into the white hot silence. He recognized Moriarty's own fall by the sounds that issued from him and his erratic thrusts. The criminal groaned deeply as his seed pulsed inside of Sherlock. As the two lay on the single hospital bed, Sherlock relished in the fact that Moriarty had filled him. He had caused him pain and made him feel so undeniably good. This was his addiction.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: **_Alas, the final chapter. It's been a lot of fun writing, and I appreciate every review you all have sent me. Please feel free to leave me further comments on what you thought of it!

Chapter Eleven

After they had cleaned themselves up, they fell into what may be their habit. They sat on the bed and smoked a cigarette. A comfortable lull fell between them. Moriarty was the one to break it, "That cut. It's gorgeous."

Sherlock had been idly playing with the line without his own knowledge. He snickered, "Of course you would think that. You made it."

Jim smiled, and they fell into silence again. When Sherlock stubbed his cigarette out, he looked pointedly at the man next to him. "I want him back."

The criminal grumbled, "Your precious little toy."

"He's mine. And believe me, after this, I don't think he could ever serve as a fix again."

Moriarty seemed to consider it after that. He knew that the cut would take several weeks to heal. It's too deliberate for Sherlock to try to play it off as a battle wound. "If you break the rules again, the consequences will be far direr, do you understand?"

Sherlock chuckled darkly. How had he gotten himself into a mess like this? "Of course."

The criminal eyed him for a moment, to see if the man didn't take him seriously. Satisfied, he replied, "He'll back to you within a week."

"Thank you," Sherlock said with some difficulty, looking into those void black eyes.

"Really, pets are only a liability, Sherlock. You shouldn't be so eager to have such a weakness."

"Sounds like the pot is calling the kettle black."

Moriarty opened his mouth to dispute, but then he realized the meaning. He broke out another pair of cigarettes, and they smoked in silence again. Sherlock took in his surroundings. A cell made for the mentally unstable trying to look like a normal room. There were thin bars lining the windows. Everything that could be made into a weapon was bolted down. There was no feeling to the room. Sherlock found he had a certain fondness for it.

He laughed to himself as he looked at his bedmate. His voice became a mocking of the little lost girl, "'But I don't want to go among mad people.'"

Moriarty's eyes lit up with amusement and a little hint of something else as he replied immediately, "'Oh, you can't help that…'" He leaned over until he was suggestively on top of Sherlock once again. "'We're all mad here.'" The criminal licked at the now healing cut. "'I'm mad,'" he continued, voice dropping. He crooned like a devil on Sherlock's shoulder, "'You're mad.'"


End file.
